It all ended with me not dying.

I'm finally ready to talk about it.

*inhale*

*exhale*

Because I'm really strong, and brave, and shit.

I am all those things that deep and meaningful motivational quotes are made of.

That Marilyn, she was so fucking wise, ya know?  That's what she was known for... her insight and her motivational quotes.

Anyway, here's what happened:

Picture it... Tuesday, July Somethingorother, 2012.

I'd spent the day busting my ass.  Deep cleaning an un-airconditioned house in the height of summer is not for sissies, yo.  This East Coast heat and humidity sucks such serious ass that a vacation in Siberia sounds like a super good idea.  I'd rather have my toes amputated from frostbite than spend one more minute sweltering and sweating in this fucking heat, no lie.  Like my friend Moo said the other day (referring to the 564834756% humidity):  "It feels like Satan took a shit on my face."

Truest freaking story ever.

See?  Fuck that shit.

Long story short, I finished my work, plopped my sweaty ass in my piping hot car (I love YOU more, black leather seats...), felt my ass start frying on contact, and thought happy thoughts while third degree burns formed on my undercarriage.

I bitched and moaned through several stops for road construction, cranked my AC, and listened to songs of female angst as I drove the hour (and a half... thank you, state of New York, for the clusterfuck that is Canton, NY) towards home, and stopped at the store on my way into town to pick up something quick, cold, and easy for dinner.

Cue the Bakery Section of the Price Chopper:

Cakes and pies!  Cakes and pies!

There, sitting on it's very own little table, was a bevy of "homemade" pies.

There were apple and cherry and raspberry and peach and pecan and strawberry rhubarb (which I confess I've never eaten... for some reason I grew up believing that rhubarb is poisonous so I refuse to taste it.  Kind of why I'm leery of mushrooms.  I'm not sure what the odds are of a toadstool appearing in my meal but I'm not taking any chances.  Plus, it's a fungi and I watched an episode of Dirty Jobs that showed how they're grown.  FYI:  In the dark, in manure, and they're watered with urine) and oh Heavenly Bliss... BLUEBERRY PIE.


I love blueberry pie.

Nothing says "summer" like blueberry pie, especially homemade blueberry pie.

I snatched one of those suckers up so fast it made a whistling sound on it's way into my cart.

I raced home from the store, full of anticipation about the wedge of pie I would have as a reward for a hard day's work.

I made sandwiches for dinner, with the full intention of eating light so that there would be room for dessert.

And then...

it was time.

The Heavens opened and The Harold Angels sang as I cut two slices of pie and handed one to Dan.

MMMMMMmmmmm... blueberry piiiiiiiiie....

I've never been so turned on...

I've always had a weird habit of eating the back crust of the pie first, thus saving the point, which is the best part (shut up... yes it is!!) for last.

I was deeply engrossed in my second bite of crust (flaky!  buttery!  sugary!) when I noticed some slippage in the top crust that was revealing something...

something...

something...

And that's when my gag reflex kicked in full force, because I realized it was mold.


The whole top of the pie, under the crust, was fuzzy and green with mold.


Mold.




MOLD.


*imagine picture of moldy pie right here*

(I couldn't even bring myself to Google it.)

As I retched and gagged and flew to the kitchen with my hand over my mouth, Dan stared down at his plate where he'd eaten all but about two bites of his pie.

He cautiously lifted up the remainder of his crust to reveal what I already knew:

The whole fucking thing was a giant vat of penicillin.

Which I'm allergic to.


I COULD HAVE DIED, Y'ALL.



Me:  *gag*  *gag*  *gag*  *retch*  *hurl*

Dan:  *silently staring at his plate*

Me:  *gag*

Dan:  "Am I gonna die?"

Me:  "YES!  YES!  WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!"

They forgot "Death By Blueberry Pie."  Idiots.

Anatomy of Insomnia

To those of you who close your eyes and fall asleep, just like that, you're doing it wrong.  

You're supposed to lie awake half the night and try to solve all the problems of the Universe.  Duh.

Also?  I really fucking hate you.

Never in my life have I peacefully, blissfully, and quickly fallen asleep.  Never.

The only time I can actually remember rapidly falling asleep was shortly after I gave birth to my first child.  I had been in labor for five days, hadn't slept for five days, and after they finally pried my son, Shea, out of my womb (where he obviously planned to spend Eternity), they brought me something other than ice chips to chew on.  I took one sip out of my glass of water and passed out cold.  I woke up 8 seconds later when I dropped the cup onto my chest.

(The icy water dripping down my neck may or may not have had something to do with that.)

That was 26 years ago.

I haven't fallen asleep since.

It doesn't matter how tired I am, how long I've been awake, how hard I've worked... the second my head hits the pillow, random thoughts begin floating through my brain and I have a night-long dialogue with myself that simply doesn't end.

Basically?

My brain can't shut up.

This is a true account of what kept me awake last night.  (Prepare to be amazed.)

I dragged my sad, sorry, and tired ass to bed at around 10:30 because I literally could not keep my eyes open.  (Literally.  Yes, literally.  I was reading a book and my eyes kept drifting out of focus and closing on their own accord.)

I snuggled under the covers, made room for Maisy (Dan has to fend for himself), mumbled something to Dan about good night, love you, blah blah blah, sighed blissfully, and then had a realization:

My feet kind of hurt. Probably from wearing high heeled flip flops all day.  If I lopped off my toes, would I still be able to walk?  I wonder if people can walk toeless. They hurt where my toes are.  Asian girls who had their feet all swaddled have no toes, and they walk.  Kind of.  What's it called, when they wrap up Asian girls feet and their toes fall off?  Swindling?

No, not swindling.

Swaddling?

No, that doesn't sound right either.

What was that book I read in 6th grade, something about lanterns... It had that Chinese girl in it who was ashamed that she had big feet...

Who wrote that?

Some crappy gothic mystery writer that Mother liked to read.  Geez, she had the worst taste in books.  Veronica something.

Wait... Japanese?  Chinese?

Who wraps up the feet?

Binding!  That's what it's called!  Binding!

My feet feel like they were binded.  Bound.  Bounded.  Binded?  Whatever.

Japanese.  I'm pretty sure it's Japanese.  Crap.  I need Google.

I wonder if Dan would notice if I grabbed his lap top and Googled "foot binding."

Eh... too much work.

Shit. Now I have to pee.

*2 minutes later, after getting up to pee*

Lotus.  I think that was the girl's name.  Lotus?  Lottie?  Lily?

House of a Thousand Lanterns!  Bingo!!!!  

Who wrote that book?

Veronica something.  

Didn't she wrote that stupid book about farming for opals in Australia?

Do they farm for opals?  Dig for opals.  Something.

MINE for opals.  

God, I'm a dumbass.

I wonder if this is the first sign of Alzheimer's?  Not being able to remember simple words, like "mine" and "bundle"?

Wait... not bundle.  Bindle.  Swaddle.  Swindle.

GAHHH!

Victoria Holt!!!

YES!

That's the author!!

What the frig was the one about Australia and opal ranching called?

Opal farming.

Come on, Danielle... we just went over this.

Ranching.

Shit.  That's not right.

Farming.

Whatever.

Mining!!!

I can't believe that yesterday when I was driving home I sang "Out past the cornflakes where the woods got heavy" when I was listening to Night Moves.  I need to Google the symptoms for Early Alzheimer's.

And whether Japanese or Chinese girls had their feet bundled.

Bindled.

Bound.

I wonder if Dick Van Dyke is still alive?

It has to be Japanese, because the Geisha's had their feet bound.

So Japanese.

Shit, it's after midnight.

"Out past the cornflakes where the woods got heavy... Out in the backseat of my 60 Chevy... Working on mysteries without any clues..."

Did I say cornflakes again?

What the fuck?

OH MY GOD, BRAIN!!!  SHUT UPPPPPPPPP!!!!

I need to Google the lyrics to Night Moves.  

And Blinded By The Light.  What the fuck are they saying?  "Wrapped up like a douche is a runner in the night..."

Whatever.

You'd think 30 years later I'd know the words to the damn song.

Dan's snoring makes me want to kick puppies.

Dan's snoring makes me want to kick Dan.

Fucking Dan.

I have to pee.

*fade to black*

No, that isn't where I fell asleep.  I got up and peed again, came back to bed, and spenT the next half hour trying to remember the name of the book about the opals in Australia.

Which I Googled this morning, by the way.

It's called The Pride Of The Peacock.

In case you were wondering.

Since it drove me crazy all night, the least you can do is read this shitty book on my behalf.

And foot binding is traditional in the Chinese culture, not Japanese.  I totally dropped a deuce on that one.

I was going to post a pic of it just for you, but it's kind of gross and barbaric so I didn't.

You're welcome.

Speaking of deuces, it's "Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night."

Not douche.

Deuce.

Now we both know.

Also?  Dick Van Dyke is indeed still alive.

And now I'm going to drink coffee and ponder my  next move.

(I didn't Google "Symptoms For Early Alzheimer's" because I didn't want to know.)

The Time I Thought I Was Funny

Or I just keep the scalps of young children in the glove box of my car... that works, too.

Say what?

Okay, it happened like this:

A month-ish ago I took my two nieces to the salon to get their hair cut and styled.  They both wanted to donate their hair to Locks of Love, which I thought was a fabulous idea.  My assumption (because I'm an ass?) was that the salon would send in the hair.

The salon had a different assumption.  (Because the salon is also an ass.)

After lopping off the girl's hair, the stylist handed both pony tails to me and said, "You can find all the information about how to donate the hair on the internet.  Just go to their website and it'll tell you what to do."

Me, in my head:  "So if you know so much about it why don't YOU do it?"

Me, outloud:  "Oh!  Okay, cool!  Thanks!"


What was I thanking her for, you ask?  I have no freaking idea.  I thank people who allow me to open doors for them, for allowing me to do all the work, for appreciating the meal I just spent 8 hours preparing so they could enjoy it for 30 minutes...

No!  Thank YOU!!

I left the salon with two little girls and two pony tails, held together individually by rubber bands.

I stuck them into the glove box of my car, with every intention of shipping them off to Locks of Love, and then, as is my wont, promptly forgot about them.

Hair?  What hair?

About a week later, as Dan and I were getting ready to go somewhere, he popped open the glove box to my car and screamed like a little bitch.

"What the FUCK?" he gasped, clutching his heart and practically shitting himself.  "What the FUCK IS THAT?"

Me:  *laughing myself into a pants-wetting asthma attack*

Dan:  *hyperventilating*

Me:  "It's the girl's pony tails.  I was going to send them to Locks of Love but I forgot."

Flash forward to a month or so later, which would be yesterday...


On my way to work, I wound up having to go through a Border Patrol check point.

(I know, right?  Border Patrol:  Keeping us safe every day from Canada.)

I'm skeered, y'all.

I never know how to act with the Border Patrol, so 9 times out of 10, I wind up acting like a douche.  A douche that thinks she's really funny and that her chunky white ass won't wind up in Border Patrol jail just for pissing off the guys with the badges.

(In other words, a douche that's going to go too far one day and find out exactly how wrong she is in that assumption.)

The skinny young hot shot with the gun and the badge wearing Top Gun-style aviator shades sidled up to my scary looking cherry red HHR with the wariness of a pro who knows that fat middle-aged women driving relatively new vehicles with vanity plates are to be approached with caution.

Gangsta bitches drives this shiz, yo.

Him:  "Ma'am, please roll down all your windows."

Me:  *clicking the lock button twice, because I panic under pressure and forgot how to roll down my windows*

Me:  *feeling like an idiot*

Me:  *rolling down windows*

Him:  "Blah blah blah, United States citizen, blah blah blah."

Me:  "Are we at war with Canada?"

Him:

Me:  "You know how sneaky those Canadians can be."

Him:

Me:  "I heard they might be hiding weapons of mass destruction, eh?"

Him:  *waiting patiently for me to stop being an asshole*

Me:  "So where the hell were you guys when Justin Bieber came sneaking across the border?"

Me:  *laughing myself stupid*

Him:  "May I please see your vehicle registration and driver's license?"

Huh... that's a new one.  I wonder if I went too far?  Usually they just ignore me for a few minutes while I ramble on and then send me on my way.


I wonder if they're putting me on a list...


I reached up to the dash, popped open the glove box...

And what to my wondering eye should appear but what resembled the scalps of two little blonde girls.

Me:  *because I totally forgot they were in there*  "Oh shit!"

Him:  "What the..."

Me:  *recovering nicely and remembering a funny that one of my friends had said after I told her about Dan finding the hair and freaking out*  "Well, SNAP.  I forgot to bury those with the rest of the bodies..."

Oh, Dani... really?  REALLY?


Him:  "Ma'am, I'm going to need you to..."

Me:  "Kidding!  They're pony tails to send to Locks of Love.  I forgot they were in there."  *waving them around playfully*  "See?  No small children attached."

Him:  "Hang on a minute.  Hey, Rhodes... get over here!"

Another Border Patrolman sauntered over, muttering mysteriously on his walkie-talkie.

(I had a serious oh shit moment, y'all.  I couldn't go to jail... I wasn't dressed for it!!  Plus I had to pee.)

Patrolman Number One snatched the pony tails from my hand and stuck them in the face of Rhodes, who jumped back, yelped, and for all intents and purposes, almost shit himself.

Patrolman One laughed so hard he almost choked to death.

Rhodes?  Not so much.

They gave me back my hair and sent me on my way, no doubt writing down my license plate number and logging the incident in my Permanent Record.

SAVE YOURSELVES!

That awkward moment...

So this totally happened last night:

I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, minding my own business, when a knock upon my door startled me from my reverie.  (My reverie while doing dishes and cleaning up after dinner includes thoughts along the lines of, "Why do I always have to do the fucking dishes?  Are his dishwashing hands broken?  Asshole." and "It's 2012, for God's own sweet sake... why hasn't a self-cleaning kitchen been invented already?  Oh yeah... because scientists are too busy discovering VIAGRA.")

I did a quick self-check to make sure that no boobs were hanging out, fluffed my hair, quieted my rabid dog (a knock upon the door triggers a feral reaction in Maisy that goes from irritating to embarrassing very, very quickly), stuck my foot in position (I have to put my foot between Maisy and the doorway to prevent her from charging like an asshole at whoever is knocking... she has no intention of biting them, and in fact, if she happens to bump into them while she's barking like a maniac, she will immediately make a u-turn and haul ass back into the house to bark from the safety of the hallway, but that doesn't stop people from thinking she's a menace to society), and opened the door to the pissy-looking countenance of my new neighbor's woman.  (I think.  I have no idea.  Maybe she's his sister, or his roommate, or a random stranger who just happened to claim she lives downstairs.)

Me:  *shouting over my stupid yapping dog and smiling obsequiously*  "Hi!  What's up?"

Her:  *arms folded, shitty look on her face*  "Hiii... I live downstairs.  Would you mind not slamming your cupboard doors shut every time you open them?"

Me:  *holding obsequious smile in place because for a minute, I wasn't sure she was speaking English* "Umm... what?"

Her:  *maintaining the shitty look on her face like it was her JOB*  "All we can hear downstairs every time you're in the kitchen is you slamming your cupboard doors.  Could you not do that?"


Me:  *trying really hard not to call her a cunt*  "Umm... sure.  I had no idea I was doing that.  Sorry."


She turned and left, without a thanks or a good-bye, and I stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to myself and resisting the urge to slam the bejeezus out of all the cupboards.

Dan, from the bedroom, where he was helpfully letting me do all the work and deal with the bitch downstairs:  "What was that about?"


Me, still pissed.  And by pissed?  I mean PISSED:  "She said I slam the cupboards and asked me to stop.  Whatever.  Excuse the fuck out of me for living upstairs and doing my dishes."\


Dan, mildly:  "You DO slam the cupboard doors."


Me:

Dan:

Me:  

Hell hath no fury like a woman wrongly accused of slamming cupboard doors.

I ohhhh soooo quietly finished the dishes, tip-toed around the kitchen, softly opened and softly closed cabinets, and fumed until it was time for bed.

I really, really missed Mr. Awesome.  He never would have accused me of slamming a cupboard door.  Oh, HELL no.  He would have invited all his homies over, cranked the music, and sang karaoke until dawn.

THAT's what a good neighbor does, dammit.  They don't go upstairs and WRONGLY ACCUSE YOU of slamming a cupboard door.

Oh, it's ON.

This morning, I got up and made my coffee.  I took the coffee cup out of the cupboard and as I swung it shut, I had a brief moment of clarification.

"Naaaaah..." I thought to myself.

I put my breakfast in the microwave, set the timer, and swung the door shut.


S
L
A
M


Wait a minute...

I opened the fridge, got out my coffee creamer, and as I kicked it shut with my bare foot a lightbulb went on over my head.

Well, SHIT.

I'm a regular one woman Mariachi Band.  With a drum solo.  And cymbals.  And a tap dancer.  Without the guitars.

Awkward...



Bang!  Crash!  Slam!

It was exactly like this, only totally different.

Or maybe it was more like this...

Who knew I was so noisy???

Surely not me.


I have no idea what to do with the information.

I mean, I could always do the obvious and stop slamming cupboard doors, but somehow that seems too easy, almost like a cop-out.

I need to do something else.

Something... bigger.

No, something even BIGGER.

I could take my show on the road!!

Crap... that's already been done.

OR... and this is just a thought...

I could make Dan do the dishes, thus eliminating the problem altogether.


Oooh...

I like that one.

Hee hee!

To Sleep, Perchance To Kick Ass And Take Names

Woke up this morning... with a wine glass in my hand

Whose wine?  What wine?  Where the hell did I dine?

(Sorry... '70s moment.)

But seriously... I woke up this morning with a wine glass in my hand.  Okay, it wasn't actually a wine glass, or even a glass at all, but I DID wake up with a wrenched shoulder and a stiff neck.  In fact, the entire left side of my body is so sore that I can barely move.

MMmmm... Peter Frampton...

(Sorry again... I wasn't quite over my '70s moment.)

Anyway, as I limped out of bed and Quasimodo'd my way into the livingroom, I had to ask myself:

"What the fuck did I do last night??"

As far as I know, my evening ended at about 10:30 when I took an Ambien and dociley went to bed, without pausing to shave my head, make French Toast, call anyone, or make an ass out of myself.  At some point during the night I got up to pee (I don't actually remember doing this, but I know for a fact that I haven't gotten through a night without getting up to pee since 1962, so I'm taking it for granted that I did so) but according to Dan, there were no loud bangs or crashes and he didn't wake up to find me break dancing in the hallway.

My usual night time antics...

I pondered and stewed and cross examined the dogs.  "What did Mommy do last night?" I asked them, fully expecting an answer, because Dan and I are those people who actually believe their dogs are human.

Maisy looked at me mournfully, with her giant Marty Feldman eyes, and Javi ignored me with the savoir faire that only a Pomeranian can muster.

("Savoir faire:  The ability to do or say the right or graceful thing in any situation."  In case you were wondering.)

Marty Feldman

Maisy Feldman

(Also in case you were wondering.)

After much speculation and soul searching, I have come to the conclusion that these are the things I do in my sleep, which makes total sense, considering the amount of pain I am in this morning.

Prepare to be amazed.

It all makes sense to me now.

When the Fu Shits, Wear It

I'm not going to recover from the indignity of the 84th Annual Family Reunion anytime soon, in case you were wondering.

That's not me, fyi.

(Yes, you read that correctly:  84th.  Annual.  For reals.  Dan's family, not mine, in case you had a moment of doubt.  I have four first cousins, because we like our Family Tree to fork.  Dan has 52.  *cough*)

The Big Moment was held at Lake Ontario, which I was assured repeatedly would be Exactly Like The Ocean.  

It wasn't.

Then I was accused of snobbery for pointing that out.

(Excuse the crap out of ME for trying to educate these people.  Fine... be stupid forever, see if I care.)

Ocean.

Lake Ontario.

But what do I know.

Don't get me wrong, it's a big-ass lake.  Biggest one I ever done seen.  And if I hadn't had it in my head that it would be exactly like the ocean I probably would have been super impressed and excited to see such a big lake.

Instead, I was let down.

And sulky.

And pouty.

And said shit like, "That's nothing like the ocean."


Because I'm 5, apparently.

That's not like the ocean!  That's a fucking lake!

I don't go lake swimming for the very reason that if I step on something squishy, I'll die.  Seriously.  So I hung out with the rest of the anti-lake swimmers and created enough sweat to fill my OWN lake.  Food was eaten, minutes were read (oh yes, they were... they take this family reunioning quite seriously), officers were voted in, eyes were rolled (okay, just mine... but that totally counts) and then it was time to pack up and go.

And that's when it happened, the Suck It Up Nancy moment that Karma was waiting for.

It went exactly like this, only in slow motion:

There are no trash cans at the park where the reunion was held, so basically you have to take all your crap back home with you.  (Who ever fucking heard of such a thing???  Ewwww!!)

SO.

Dan's mom had brought a plastic table cloth, plastic forks and spoons, and paper plates, which we determined could just be folded up together, tied into a bundle, and taken home to be disposed of.  (Which totally makes sense if you're an uncivilized Okie and have never seen a garbage can.  No offense to civilized Okies, of course.)

As we were folding up the table cloth with the dirty dinnerware inside, a large seagull, who had just eaten a buttload of something greenish purple and nasty, flew overhead.

I had my nose wrinkled up (I mean, eww... I was touching other people's food) and was folding the corners of the table cloth together with a look of pure disgust evident on my pouty face.

"Yes, boss!  I'm on it!!"

At the precise moment that my hand reached for the final corner, the load of poop the seagull had been saving for just such an occasion landed on the back of my hand, dripped down between the folds of my thumb and forefinger, and instantly stained my skin green.

Long story short, I had to walk through the entire park and down to the lake that was clearly not an ocean to rinse seagull poop off my hand.  Without soap.  In slimy lake water.  (Did I mention that?)

Oh, and in case you were wondering?

That shit doesn't wash off.


On the drive home, Dan's mom, who hadn't been privy to my 2 hour long bitch fest about the lack of ocean-ness of Lake Ontario asked sweety, "So what did you think of Lake Ontario?  It's like being at the ocean, isn't it?"

"Oh yes," I answered enthusiastically, with my hand still redolent of au de birdshit, "It was majestic!  Amazing!  Incredible!"

A Migraine's Journey into Day 3

Migraine:  Day Three.

There has to be someone I can blame for this, right?

Has to be.

Naturally, I choose Dan.

I just realized it looks like he has no teeth.  He has teeth.  I swear.  I'm shallow enough that I wouldn't be with him if he didn't.  Sad but true.  Toothless is a Deal Breaker.

If ever there were a man capable of triggering a three day migraine, it's this one.

I've spent this week sneezing my ass off, blowing my nose, sweating like there's no tomorrow, and laying awake half the night because it's too hot to sleep.

You can see how this is all Dan's fault, right?

I have horrible allergies (Dan's fault... seriously) and have spent the past few weeks sneezing like it's my JOB.  One day last week I was toodling through the grocery store when I kept catching something white floating in front of my face out of the corner of my eye.  I kept batting at it ineffectively, like it was an annoying fly, to no avail.  There it remained, blurry and ever present right before my very eyes.

When I got in my car I checked the mirror to see what was going on.

As it turns out (and trust me when I say that NO one will find this shocking IN THE LEAST) after spending the morning blowing my nose, a thin piece of toilet paper attached itself to my nose ring and was waving gaily in the breeze as I ran my ohsoverypublic errands.

God damn DAN.  Moving me to the wilds of Northern New York where hay abounds, the one damn thing I am so allergic to that it gives me asthma...

I'm beginning to think he's trying to kill me.

Is there something in my nose?  

I had to go to the doctor on Tuesday, which just plain sucked.  I hate going to the doctor.  Hate it.  But since I only saw her once, a year ago, she informed me in no uncertain terms that if I plan on living much longer through the help of pharmaceuticals, I need to show up and let her look at me.

Fuckety fuck fuck fuck.

DAMN you, high blood pressure!  (Dan's fault.)

DAMN you, hypothyroid!!  (My grandmother's fault... but also Dan's fault, just because.)

For starters, I had to step on the scale.

The scrawny little male nurse made clucking noises as he whisked the little weight bar farther and farther up the scale, shaking his head and writing shit down.

"You've gained 13 pounds since you were here in September of last year," he informed me, looking at me accusingly as if I'd done it on purpose just to disappoint him.

When my doctor came in, she told me, in hard core Brooklyn-ese,  that I'm too pretty to be this fat and too old to be gaining this much weight.

She seriously did.

(Newsflash:  When  I see a doctor, I expect a lot of hand holding, sympathy, and fun drugs.  Not cold hard truth, tough love, and a slap on the wrist when I request Valium, Xanax, Vicodin, and Ambien.  Just so you know, NEW YORK.)

Here's what she actually said:

"Now about ya weight.  You ah still goahjuss but youah fillin' out a bit and plumping up, am I right?  You don't wanna be like that, not with that face.  Youah showtinin' ya life, ya know... at youah age you can't affowd to gain weight like that."

Dan, calling me after appointment:  "What did the doctor say?"

Me:  "She said I'm fat and old."  (Translation of the above Brooklyn-ese, as heard through my California ears.)

Dan:  "She did not."

Me:  "She did.  She really did.  And she said I'm too pretty to be this fat."

Dan:  *long pause*

Me:

Dan:  "I'll pick you up after work and we'll go out to dinner."

See?

SEEEEE?


DID YOU ALL SEE THAT?

Me:  "I'm fat."

Dan:  "Let's go eat."

THAT'S WHY I'M FAT.

(I know... this was supposed to be about my migraine.  I'm getting to that.)

We went to a groovy little all natural foods restaurant and I ate the best freaking grilled chicken sandwich I've ever eaten, ever, in my life, and topped it off with not one, but TWO frosted sugar cookies, which are my favorite thing in the whole world.

When I woke up the next morning, I was even fatter.

And I had a headache.

Despite brushing my teeth twice, my tongue was still a brilliant shade of red, caused by the loving attention I paid to the crimson frosting on the sugar cookie(s) I devoured the night before.

SOOOooo red.

Red.

Red food coloring.

Hmmmmm.

Oh yeah... red food coloring triggers my migraines.

Which is why I don't drink red punch, red Crystal Lite, eat red Jello or red jelly beans or red anything, actually...

Except for red frosting on crispy, buttery, homemade sugar cookies.

They were shaped like watering cans and were sooooo yummy.

Oh, sugar cookies with dark red frosting... I hardly knew ye.

Friggin' DAN.


Me, to Dan:  "Thanks to YOU, I've had a migraine for three days now."

Dan:  "Why is that MY fault?"

Me:  "Remember when I told you that my doctor said I was fat and old so you took me out to eat?  And then you said, "Do you want dessert?" so I got two red frosted sugar cookies?"

Dan:  "Yeah... ?"

Me:  "THAT's why it's your fault."


Men are so stupid.

Testify!

He's going to make it up to me tonight by plying me with Bloody Marys and indulging me in my drunken hilarity.  (I'm hilarious when I'm drinking.  HILARIOUS.  Dan is the best drunken target EVER.)

That'll teach him.

Who's sorry now, DAN?

Have a groovy weekend!!

Do something I totally wouldn't do and then tell me about it!!

Who's the beyotch NOW??

A little over a year ago, as I was being forcibly dragged across the continental United States and transplanted in a remote corner of northern New York, I made the ballsy statement, "I'm going to make New York my bitch."

It was my little way of making the best of a horrible situation.  

(I mean, what better way to fit in with the Amish than to decide to make them your bitch, yes?)

At the exact moment that I made that statement, unseen forces in the Universe started laughing their asses off.

Jesus, wiping his eyes and trying to catch his breath:  "Whooo... that was a good one! Oh my God, "I'm going to make New York my bitch."  Haaahahahahaaaaa!  I'm gonna pee!"

Karma:  "She's my favorite."

Jesus:  "Right?  I have some great video of her for the next Christmas party.  Hysterical."

Karma:  "Ooh!  Did you get the one where she almost beat herself to death because a leaf fell on her head and she thought it was a bat?  Wait til you see what she does when I drop a beetle into her hair!!"

I'm beginning to think that part of the reason the Universe likes to fuck with me so hard is because I find stuff like this so damn hilarious.

Judging by yesterday and this morning, I'm thinking it's a slow week for the Universe.  With nothing better to do, it's decided to have a few laughs at my expense.  

(In fact, just now, when I looked outside?  The clouds were forming a distinct "LOL" formation.)

Yesterday I drove an hour to my house cleaning gig, spent 5 hours sweating and cleaning (during which time a large beetle fell into my hair and I proceeded to slap the shit out of myself on the off-chance it was actually a rabid bat), then drove the hour home.  

*Sidebar:  Shut up about the bats.  They have found three cases of rabies in our county and I'm positive it's spread by bats.  Just because it was found in two raccoons and a bunny (I know, right?  I can't imagine anything more horrible than a rabid bunny) doesn't mean it didn't start with the freaking bats.  I am ever vigilant.

"It's just a little bunny rabbit!"

But first, I had to stop at the store.

Because a woman's work is never done, don'tcha know.

I ran in to the store, grabbed food stuffs for dinner, and ran back out to my car...

only to discover a giant freaking Suburban parked in the Compact Car ONLY space next to my cute little HHR, effectively making the option of me actually entering my vehicle from the driver's side door virtually impossible.

Mother.

Fucker.

I fumed.

I steamed.

I yelled a very bad word.

I threw a mini tantrum.

People walking by cut a wide berth away from the crazy lady having a meltdown and screaming at the SUV.

I had to climb into my car through the passenger's side door and promptly become a contortionist,  which is never pretty.

I was touched inappropriately and partially violated when my gear shift gained intimate knowledge of my lady parts.

My right foot got stuck and I had to pry it over my head to get it under the steering wheel.

I accidentally set off my panic button, calling even more attention to myself.

I may or may not have cried on my way home.

This just in:  I'm never going to the Price Chopper again, which now makes two grocery stores that have kicked my ass and made me their bitch.

When I finally got home, my first course of action was to strip off my hot, sweaty, dirty clothes and fling myself face down onto my bed, allowing the fan to tickle away the disgustingness of my day.

MMMMMmmmmmm...

I've got to tell you all, it felt sooooo gooooooood.

Like, making soft little almost sex noises good.

"Oh baby... yeah... right there.  That's the spot.  Come to mama..."

As I was moaning into my pillow, a loud knock suddenly startled me from my reverie and booted me out of my happy place. 

My dogs started barking like assholes and I shot off my bed, trying frantically to find something to put on to cover my obscene and sweaty nakedness.

I threw on a tank top and a pair of capri leggings (sorry, Misty, but I had no other choice but to wear them as pants at that precise moment) and answered the door.

My landlord was standing there, looking a little flustered.

Casually, as if he just hadn't heard me talking dirty to my fan, I said hello and equally casually, as if he didn't think I was a giant freak, he handed me my rent receipt.  We made awkward small talk and finally said our good-byes.

As I was in the process of shutting the door, I looked down just enough to notice that in my haste to dress myself, I'd put my tank top on at a crooked angle (it was a tank with thin straps, just to give you a better visual) and not only was one strap dissecting my right boob, but the right boob was also partially hanging out under the right arm pit, which, due to the fact that I don't know how to dress myself, was somewhere in the middle of my chest.

I slunk into my bedroom to assess the damage in the full length mirror and that's when I discovered the icing on the cake:

The back of the tank top was all rolled up, exposing about 6 inches of back fat.

Fuck me hard.

I feel a draft...

Really, Universe?  Really?

Moving right along...

This morning, I was awakened at 6 a.m. by the loud sound of what appeared to be someone dragging something heavy back and forth across the gravel driveway.

Maisy hurled herself at the window, barking like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

Dan, rousing himself enough to bellow:  "Maisy!  Be quiet!  Get down!"

Me:  "Why the hell should she be quiet?  If they're going to move their shit at 6 in the morning and wake me up, they can listen to her bark."

Dan:  "What are you talking about?"

Me:  "Don't you hear that noise?  What the frig are they doing?"

Dan:  "Who?"

Me:  "Those stupid assholes who just moved in.  What the hell?"

Dan:  "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

Me:  "Jesus, Dan... are you telling me you can't hear that?"

Dan:  "Hear WHAT?"

Right at that second another loud rumble shook our house and was followed by a crack of lightning, followed by more loud rumbles.

*crickets*

Dan:

Me:

Dan:  *snicker*

Me:  "If you love me, you will never mention this again."

Dear New York,

I am, indeed, your bitch.

Uncle.

Love,

Dani